LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Class 


Jbolmes's 


COMPLETE  POETICAL  AND  PROSE  WORKS.  Riverside 
Edition.  With  Portraits,  Notes  by  Dr.  Holmes,  etc.  14  vols. 
crown  8vo,  each  volume,  $1.50;  the  set,  $21.00.  Vols.  i-n: 
Prose  Works.  Vols.  12-14:  Poetical  Works. 

1.  THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

2.  THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

3.  THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

4.  OVER  THE  TEACUPS. 

5.  ELSIE  VENNER.    A  ROMANCE  OF  DESTINY. 

6.  THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 

7.  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

8.  PAGES  FROM  AN  OLD  VOLUME  OF  LIFE. 
g.    MEDICAL  ESSAYS. 

to.   OUR  HUNDRED  DAYS  IN  EUROPE. 

11.  EMERSON  AND  MOTLEY. 

12,  13,  14.    POEMS. 

PROSE  WORKS.  Riverside  Edition.  With  Portraits,  Notes, 
etc.  ii  vols.  crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $16.50. 

POEMS.  Riverside  Edition.  With  Portrait,  Notes,  etc.  3  vols. 
crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $4.50. 

COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS.  Cambridge  Edition.  With 
a  Biographical  Sketch,  Notes,  an  Index  to  Titles  and  First 
Lines,  a  Portrait,  and  an  Engraving  of  his  Birthplace  in  Cam 
bridge.  8vo,  gilt  top,  $2.00. 

Household  Edition.  With  Portrait  and  Illustrations.  Crown 
8vo,  $1.50. 

Cabinet  Edition.      i6mo,  $1.00. 

THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  SERIES,  containing  The  Autocrat, 
The  Professor,  The  Poet,  and  Over  the  Teacups.  Riverside 
Edition.  4  vols.  crown  8vo,  in  box,  £6.00. 

New  Handy  Volume  Edition.     4  vols.  i8mo,  each  $1.00; 
the  set  $4.00. 

For  the  numerous  single  volumes  by  Dr.  Holmes,  see  Catalogue. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

THE   AUTOCRAT   AND   HIS 
FELLOW-BOARDERS 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 

THE  AUTOCRAT  AND  HIS 
FELLOW-BOARDERS 

BY 
SAMUEL   McCHORD   CROTHERS 

WITH   SELECTED   POEMS 


OF  THE 

UNIVEftSITY 

OF 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

MDCCCCIX 


COPYRIGHT,   1909,   BY  SAMUEL   MCCHORD  CROTHERS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  September,  IQOQ 


SECOND   IMPRESSION 


CONTENTS 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES: 
THE    AUTOCRAT   AND    HIS    FELLOW- 
BOARDERS  1 

SELECTED  POEMS 

OLD   IRONSIDES    (1830) 41 

THE   CAMBRIDGE   CHURCHYARD    (1836) 42 

THE   LAST   LEAF   (1831) 47 

THE   HEIGHT   OF  THE  RIDICULOUS   (1830)    ....  49 

THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE  (1858) 50 

BILL  AND   JOE   (1868) 55 

WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK   (1858) 57 

ROBINSON   OF   LEYDEN   (1859) 59 

A   SUN-DAY   HYMN   (1859) 61 

THE   CROOKED   FOOTPATH    (1859)          62 

THE   CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS    (1858) 64 


211743 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 
OF 

'" 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

DR.  HOLMES  said  of  Emerson :  "  He  delineates 
himself  so  perfectly  in  his  various  writings  that 
the  careful  reader  sees  his  nature  just  as  it  was 
in  all  its  essentials,  and  has  little  more  to  learn 
than  those  human  accidents  which  individual 
ize  him  in  time  and  space." 

This  was  even  more  true  of  Dr.  Holmes 
than  of  his  friend.  His  life  was  singularly  de 
void  of  struggle.  It  was  all  of  a  piece.  There 
were  no  dramatic  surprises.  It  is  in  his  writ 
ings  that  we  see  the  man. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  was  born  in  Cam 
bridge,  Massachusetts,  on  August  29,  1809. 
His  father,  Rev.  Abiel  Holmes,  minister  of  the 
First  Church  in  Cambridge,  was  a  man  of 
distinction  in  his  profession.  A  lover  of  the  old 
ways,  he  took  the  conservative  side  in  the 
controversy  which  divided  his  parish.  In  the 
old  gambrel-roofed  house  the  minister's  son 
heard  much  argument  about  theology.  Though 
he  drifted  away  from  the  doctrines  of  his 
[  3  ] 


HOLMES 

father,  he  never  lost  interest  in  the  discussions 
of  matters  of  faith.  It  was  a  characteristic  re 
mark  of  the  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table 
that  "  we  are  all  theological  students  and  more 
of  us  are  qualified  as  doctors  of  divinity  than 
have  received  degrees  at  any  of  the  universities." 
This  was  certainly  true  of  those  who  breathed 
the  atmosphere  of  Cambridge  during  the  early 
years  of  the  Unitarian  controversy. 

It  was  natural  that  the  orthodox  minister's 
son  should  go  to  Phillips  Academy,  Andover, 
and  then  to  Harvard  College,  from  which  he 
graduated  in  1829.  There  was  one  year  of 
flirtation  with  the  pages  of  Chitty  and  Black- 
stone  in  the  Law  School  at  Cambridge,  but 
nothing  serious  came  of  it.  Long  afterwards 
Dr.  Holmes  wrote:  "In  that  fatal  year  I  had 
my  first  attack  of  authors'  lead-poisoning,  and 
I  have  never  got  quite  rid  of  it  from  that  day  to 
this.  But  for  that  I  might  have  applied  myself 
more  diligently  to  my  legal  studies,  and  carried 
a  green  bag  in  place  of  a  stethoscope  and  a  ther 
mometer  up  to  the  present  day."  Medicine  was 
preferred  as  being  a  less  jealous  mistress  than 
the  law.  Then  followed  three  years  of  study 
[  4  ] 


HOLMES 

in  France.  It  was  characteristic  that  on  land 
ing  at  Calais  he  sought  out  the  hotel  immor 
talized  by  Sterne  in  the  "  Sentimental  Journey." 
Holmes  and  Sterne  had  much  in  common, 
and  each  felt  an  intellectual  kinship  with  the 
French. 

Returning  to  Boston,  he  began  the  practice 
of  medicine,  which  by  a  natural  transition 
passed  into  the  work  of  medical  instructor.  In 
1847  he  received  the  appointment  of  Park- 
man  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  in 
the  Medical  School  of  Harvard  University. 
This  position  he  held  for  thirty-five  years.  It 
is  difficult  for  the  public  to  hold  two  thoughts 
of  any  man  at  the  same  time.  The  obvious 
fact  that  Dr.  Holmes  was  a  wit  has  obscured 
the  other  fact  that  in  his  own  profession  he 
attained  distinction  as  a  painstaking  and  keen- 
eyed  man  of  science.  There  is  ample  testimony 
to  this  from  those  competent  to  give  an  opin 
ion,  and  even  the  general  reader  who  will  look 
into  the  "  Medical  Essays  "  may  be  convinced. 
A  paper  read  before  the  Boston  Society  for 
Medical  Improvement  in  1843,  on  "The  Con 
tagiousness  of  Puerperal  Fever,"  awakened 
[  5  ]  ... 


HOLMES 

physicians  to  dangers  to  which  they  had  been 
oblivious  and  led  to  a  revolution  in  their 
methods. 

But  though  as  a  professor  Dr.  Holmes  at 
tained  a  high  degree  of  success,  it  was  as  a 
man  of  letters  that  he  gained  fame.  There  were, 
however,  no  eccentricities  of  genius  to  record, 
nor  any  paragraphs  to  find  a  place  in  a  book 
on  the  "  Calamities  of  Authors."  Still  less  did 
he  furnish  any  materials  for  a  collection  of 
"The  Quarrels  of  Authors." 

He  began  to  write  in  college  and  continued 
till  in  extreme  old  age  his  pen  dropped  from 
his  hand,  but  he  never  in  any  strict  sense  wrote 
for  the  public.  His  last  sentence  in  "Our 
Hundred  Days  in  Europe"  is  suggestive.  "If 
.  .  .  this  account  of  our  summer  experiences 
is  a  source  of  pleasure  to  many  friends,  and  of 
pain  to  no  one,  as  I  trust  will  prove  to  be  the 
fact,  I  hope  I  need  never  regret  giving  to  the 
public  the  pages  which  are  meant  more  es 
pecially  for  readers  who  have  a  personal  inter 
est  in  the  writer." 

The  fact  was  that  he  had  always  been  writ 
ing  for  this  class  of  readers.  A  circle  of  per- 
[  6  ] 


OLMES 

sonal  friends  had  surrounded  him,  and  the 
circle  had  grown  larger  with  the  years. 

He  was  not  a  poet  in  the  usual  sense  of  the 
word.  "The  Chambered  Nautilus"  is  per 
haps  the  only  bit  of  his  verse  which  has  the 
artistic  completeness  which  enables  it  to  stand 
alone.  He  had  a  poetical  gift  and  he  used  it 
for  the  amusement  and  comfort  of  his  friends, 
without  much  thought  of  the  verdict  of  pos 
terity.  His  poems  were  meant  to  be  read  by 
himself  to  his  friends. 

In  1836,  only  a  year  after  his  return  from 
Europe,  he  published  his  first  volume  of  poetry. 
"Old  Ironsides,"  "The  Last  Leaf,"  "The 
Height  of  the  Ridiculous"  gave  a  taste  of 
his  quality.  It  became  known  that  there  was 
a  young  doctor  living  in  Boston  who  had  a 
whimsical  fancy  and  who  never  dared  to  write 
as  funny  as  he  could.  Henceforth  on  every 
festive  occasion  the  attempt  was  made  to  draw 
him  out.  For  almost  fifty  years  he  was  the 
Poet  Laureate  of  Boston,  ready  to  produce 
verses  for  every  important  occasion.  There  is 
"A  Modest  Request"  complied  with  after  the 
Dinner  at  President  Everett's  Inauguration; 
[  7  ] 


HOLMES 

there  is  a  Rhymed  Lesson,  delivered  before  the 
Boston  Mercantile  Library  Association;  there 
is  a  Medical  Poem  taken  as  an  after-dinner 
prescription  by  the  Medical  Society.  There 
are  poems  written  for  fairs,  poems  on  the  dedi 
cation  of  cemeteries,  poems  on  the  birthdays 
of  distinguished  citizens,  poems  on  their  going 
to  Europe,  poems  of  welcome  to  illustrious 
visitors,  and  always  the  poems  for  the  re 
unions  of  the  Class  of  '29. 

Had  Dr.  Holmes  died  before  reaching  the 
age  of  forty-seven,  he  would  have  been  remem 
bered  as  a  brilliant  member  of  a  remarkable 
group  of  literary  men.  Yet  still  he  would  have 
been  reckoned  among  "  the  inheritors  of  unful 
filled  renown."  He  had  written  many  clever 
verses,  but  he  had  not  yet  found  the  medium 
for  the  full  expression  of  himself. 

He  had  written  many  short  poems,  he  after 
wards  wrote  several  novels ;  but  his  literary  re 
putation  rests  on  "  The  Autocrat  of  the  Break 
fast-Table"  (including  under  tjjat  title  the 
three  volumes  of  The  Breakfast-Table  Series). 
The  reader  always  thinks  of  Dr.  Holmes  as 
"  The  Autocrat."  The  title  of  the  work  is  a  jus- 
[  8  ] 


HOLMES 

tification  for  the  reader's  assumption  that  the 
author  and  his  hero  are  one:  "The  Autocrat 
of  the  Breakfast-Table:  Every  Man  his  Own 
Boswell."  By  this  title  criticism  is  disarmed 
and  we  are  told  just  what  to  expect.  If  we 
wish  to  know  what  manner  of  man  Dr.  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes  was,  we  have  only  to  look 
within. 

To  say  that  he  was  his  own  Boswell  is  but 
to  say  that  he  was  by  instinct  not  an  histo 
rian  or  a  novelist  or  a  systematic  philosopher, 
but  an  essayist.  Now  the  great  difficulty  with 
the  discursive  essay  lies  in  the  fact  that  it  en 
counters  the  social  prejudice  against  the  use 
of  the  first  person  singular.  It  is  not  considered 
good  form  for  a  man  to  talk  much  about  him 
self.  The  essayist  is  not  really  more  egotistic 
than  the  most  reticent  of  his  fellow-citizens, 
but  the  first  person  singular  is  his  stock-in- 
trade.  If  he  is  not  allowed  to  say  "I,"  his  style 
stiffens  into  formalism.  He  is  interested  in  the 
human  mind,  and  likes  to  chronicle  its  queer 
goings  on.  He  is  curious  about  its  inner  work 
ing.  Now  it  happens  that  the  only  mind  of 
which  he  is  able  to  get  an  inside  view  is  his 


HOLMES 

own,  and  so  he  makes  the  most  of  it.  He  fol 
lows  his  mind  about,  taking  notes  of  all  its 
haps  and  mishaps.  He  is  aware  that  it  may 
not  be  the  best  intellect  in  the  world,  but  it  is 
all  he  has,  and  he  cannot  help  becoming  at 
tached  to  it.  A  man's  mind  grows  on  acquaint 
ance.  For  a  person  to  be  his  own  Boswell 
implies  that  he  is  his  own  Dr.  Johnson.  Dr. 
Johnson  must  have  enough  opinions,  obsti 
nacies,  and  insights  to  make  the  Boswellizing 
worth  while.  The  natural  history  of  a  mental 
vacuum  cannot  be  made  interesting  to  the 
general  reader. 

For  commercial  purposes  it  is  sometimes 
necessary  to  create  an  artificial  person,  called 
the  corporation,  to  carry  on  business.  In  like 
manner,  the  essayist  finds  it  convenient  to 
create  an  artificial  person  to  carry  on  the  busi 
ness  of  self-revelation.  As  the  corporation  is 
relieved  of  the  necessity  of  having  a  soul,  so 
the  artificial  literary  character  is  without  self- 
consciousness.  He  can  say  "I"  as  often  as  he 
pleases,  without  giving  offense.  If  a  narrow- 
minded  person  accuses  the  author  of  being 
egotistic,  he  can  readily  prove  an  alibi.  If 
[  10  ] 


HOLMES 

Elia  should  prove  garrulous  in  proclaiming  his 
whims,  Mr.  Charles  Lamb  could  not  be  blamed. 
He  was  attending  faithfully  to  his  duties  in  the 
East  India  House. 

Dr.  Holmes  was  fortunate,  not  only  in  creat 
ing  a  character  through  which  to  put  forth  his 
private  opinions,  but  also  in  providing  that 
character  with  the  proper  environment.  He  was 
thus  enabled  not  only  to  reveal  himself,  but  also 
to  reveal  the  society  of  which  he  formed  a  part. 

Washington  Irving's  Geoffrey  Crayon  was 
only  the  English  Mr.  Spectator  transplanted 
to  America.  The  elderly  man  about  town  was 
more  fitted  for  London  than  for  the  New  York 
of  that  period.  But  Dr.  Holmes  hit  upon  a 
character  and  a  situation  distinctly  American. 
Let  Philosophy  come  down  from  the  heights, 
and  take  up  her  abode  in  a  Boston  boarding- 
house.  Let  there  be  a  nervous  landlady  anxious 
to  please,  and  an  opinionated  old  gentleman 
ready  to  be  displeased,  and  a  poet,  and  a  phi 
losopher,  and  a  timid  school-mistress,  and  a 
divinity-student  who  wants  to  know,  and  an 
angular  female  in  black  bombazine,  and  a 
young  fellow  named  John  who  cares  for  none 

t  11  ] 


HOLMES 

of  these  things.  Then  let  these  free-born 
American  citizens  be  talked  to  by  one  of  their 
fellow- boarders  who  has  usurped  the  author 
ity  of  speech. 

The  philosophical  historian  of  the  future 
may  picture  the  New  England  of  the  middle 
of  the  nineteenth  century  under  the  symbolism 
of  the  Autocrat  and  his  Boarding-House.  You 
cannot  understand  one  without  the  other.  In 
Europe  different  streams  of  culture  flow  side 
by  side  without  mingling.  One  man  belongs  to 
the  world  of  art,  another  to  the  world  of  busi 
ness,  another  to  the  world  of  politics.  Each 
sphere  has  its  well-recognized  conventions. 

Matthew  Arnold  voices  the  inherited  ideal. 
It  is  that  of  one  who,  in  the  society  which  he 
has  chosen,  is  not  compelled  to  note  "all  the 
fever  of  some  differing  soul."  In  America,  to 
note  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul  is  part  of 
the  fun.  We  like  to  use  the  clinical  thermome 
ter  and  take  one  another's  temperature. 

We  do  not  think  of  ourselves  as  in  an  intel 
lectual  realm  where  every  man's  house  is  his 
castle.  We  are  all  boarders  together.  There 
are  no  gradations  of  rank,  nobody  sits  below 


HOLMES 

the  salt.  We  listen  to  the  Autocrat  so  long  as 
we  think  he  talks  sense ;  and  when  he  gets  be 
yond  our  depth  we  push  back  our  chairs  some 
what  noisily,  and  go  about  our  business.  The 
young  fellow  named  John  is  one  of  the  most 
important  persons  at  the  table.  The  Autocrat 
would  think  it  his  greatest  triumph  if  he  could 
make  the  slightest  impression  on  that  imper 
turbable  individual. 

The  first  sentence  of  the  book  strikes  the 
keynote.  "  I  was  just  going  to  say,  when  I  was 
interrupted."  Here  we  have  the  American 
philosopher  at  his  best.  He  is  inured  to  inter 
ruptions.  He  is  graciously  permitted  to  dis 
course  to  his  fellow-citizens  on  the  Good,  the 
True,  and  the  Beautiful,  but  he  must  be 
mighty  quick  about  it.  He  must  know  how 
to  get  in  his  words  edgewise. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  pursue  this  subject 
a  little  further  ?"  asks  the  Autocrat.  Then  he 
adds  meekly,  "They  did  n't  allow  me."  When 
he  attempts  to  present  a  subject  in  systematic  j 
form :  "  Oh,  oh,  oh ! "  cried  the  young  fellow 
whom  they  call  John,  "that  is  from  one  of 
your  lectures ! " 

[    13    ] 


HOLMES 

For  all  his  autocratic  airs,  there  is  no  dan 
ger  that  he  will  be  allowed  to  think  of  himself 
more  highly  than  he  ought  to  think.  The 
boarders  will  take  care  to  prevent  such  a  ca 
lamity.  All  his  sentimentalities  and  sublimi 
ties  are  at  once  subjected  to  the  nipping  air 
of  the  boarding-house. 

When  the  Professor  makes  a  profound  state 
ment,  the  "economically  organized  female  in 
black  bombazine"  remarks  acidly,  "I  don't 
think  people  who  talk  over  their  victuals  are 
likely  to  say  anything  great." 

We  must  remember  that  the  lady  in  black 
bombazine  was  a  very  important  person  in  her 
day.  And  so  was  another  boarder,  known  as 
the  "Model  of  all  the  Virtues."  We  are  made 
intimately  acquainted  with  this  excellent  lady, 
though  we  are  not  told  her  name.  She  was 
the  "  natural  product  of  a  chilly  climate  and 
high  culture."  "  There  was  no  handle  of  weak 
ness  to  take  hold  of  her  by ;  she  was  as  unseiz- 
f  able,  except  in  her  totality,  as  a  billiard-ball ; 
and  on  the  broad,  green,  terrestrial  table, 
where  she  had  been  knocked  about,  like  all 
of  us,  by  the  cue  of  Fortune,  she  glanced  from 
[  14  ] 


HOLMES 

* 

every  human  contact,  and  'caromed'  from 
one  relation  to  another,  and  rebounded  from 
the  stuffed  cushion  of  temptation,  with  .  .  . 
exact  and  perfect  angular  movements." 

To  get  the  full  humor  of  the  talk,  one  must 
always  hear  the  audacities  of  the  Autocrat 
answered  by  the  rustle  of  the  bombazine  and 
the  grieved  resignation  of  the  Model  of  all 
the  Virtues.  It  was  all  so  different  from  what 
they  had  been  accustomed  to.  In  the  first 
part  of  the  nineteenth  century  a  great  wave  of 
didactic  literature  swept  over  the  English  and 
American  reading  public.  A  large  number 
of  conscientious  ladies  and  gentlemen  simulta 
neously  discovered  that  they  could  write  im 
proving  books,  and  at  once  proceeded  to  do 
so.  Their  aim  was  to  make  the  path  of  duty 
so  absolutely  plain  that  the  wayfaring  man, 
though  a  fool,  could  not  err  therein ;  and  they 
succeeded.  The  wayfaring  man  who  was  more 
generously  endowed  had  a  hard  time  of  it  by 
reason  of  the  advice  that  was  thrust  upon 
him.  The  cult  of  the  Obvious  was  at  its  height 
in  the  days  when  Tupper's  "Proverbial  Phi 
losophy"  was  popularly  supposed  to  be  poetry, 
[  15  ] 


HOLMES 

and  Mr.  G.  P.  R.  James  furnished  the  excite 
ment  of  Romance  without  any  of  its  imagi 
native  perils.  The  idea  was  that  everything 
had  to  be  explained. 

When  most  of  his  characters  are  in  the  direst 
extremities  in  the  Bastille,  Mr.  James  begins 
a  new  chapter  thus:  "Having  now  left  the 
woodman  as  unhappy  as  we  could  wish,  and 
De  Blenau  very  little  better  off  than  he  was 
before,  we  must  proceed  with  Pauline,  and 
see  what  we  can  do  with  her  in  the  same  way. 
It  has  already  been  said  in  the  hurry  of  her 
flight  she  struck  her  foot  against  a  stone  and 
fell.  This  is  an  unpleasant  accident  at  all 
times,  and  more  especially  when  one  is  running 
away." 

While  the  romancer  was  so  careful  that 
the  reader  should  understand  what  happened 
and  why,  the  moralist  was  even  more  appre 
hensive  in  regard  to  his  charges.  In  any  second 
hand  store  you  find  the  shelves  still  cluttered 
up  with  didactic  little  books  published  any 
where  from  1800  to  1860,  called  "Guides"  or 
"Aids"  to  one  thing  or  another.  They  were 
intended  to  make  everything  perfectly  intel- 
[  16  ] 


HOLMES 

ligible  to  the  intellectually  dependent  classes. 
The  "Laborer's  Guide,"  the  "Young  Lady's 
Aid,"  the  "Parents'  Assistant,"  the  "Af 
flicted  Man's  Companion,"  were  highly  es 
teemed  by  persons  who  liked  to  have  a  book  to 
tell  them  to  go  in  when  it  rained.  When  I  came 
across  the  "Saloon-Keeper's  Companion"  I 
felt  sure  that  it  belonged  to  this  period,  and  so 
it  did.  Even  the  poor  saloon-keeper  \vas  not 
allowed  to  take  anything  for  granted. 

To  persons  brought  up  on  the  Bombazine 
school  of  literature,  Dr.  Holmes's  style  was 
very  perplexing.  Instead  of  presenting  an  as 
sortment  of  ready-made  thoughts,  each  placed 
decently  on  the  counter  with  the  mark-down 
price  in  plain  figures,  he  allowed  the  reader  to 
look  into  his  mind  and  see  how  he  did  his 
thinking.  He  described  to  the  bewildered 
boarding-house  the  exciting  mental  processes. 

"  Every  event  that  a  man  would  master  must 
be  mounted  on  the  run,  and  no  man  ever 
caught  the  reins  of  a  thought  except  as  it  gal 
loped  by  him.  So  ...  we  may  consider  the 
mind  as  it  moves  among  thoughts  or  events, 
like  a  circus-rider  whirling  round  with  a  great 
[  17  ] 


HOLMES 

troop  of  horses.  He  can  mount  a  fact  or  an 
idea,  and  guide  it  more  or  less  completely,  but 
he  cannot  stop  it.  ...  He  can  stride  two  or 
three  thoughts  at  once,  but  not  break  their 
steady  walk,  trot,  or  gallop.  He  can  only  take 
his  foot  from  the  saddle  of  one  thought  and 
put  it  on  that  of  another.  What  is  the  saddle 
of  a  thought?  Why,  a  word,  of  course." 

This  sounds  like  what  in  these  days  we  call 
the  New  Psychology.  But  to  many  of  the 
boarders  the  act  of  thinking  in  public  seemed 
indecorous.  They  were  shocked  at  the  idea 
of  the  mind  making  an  object  of  itself,  skip 
ping  about  from  one  subject  to  another,  like  a 
circus-rider.  In  the  most  esteemed  literature 
of  the  day,  this  never  happened.  A  thought  was 
never  allowed  to  go  abroad  unless  chaperoned 
by  an  elderly  and  perfectly  reliable  Moral. 

When  the  Autocrat  presented  a  new  thought 
to  the  Breakfast-Table,  "  'I  don't  believe  one 
word  of  what  you  are  saying,'  spoke  up  the 
angular  female  in  black  bombazine." 

Dr.    Holmes    has    been    called    provincial. 
This  is  high  praise  for  one  who  aspires  to  be 
[    18    ] 


HOLMES 

his  own  Boswell.  Said  Dr.  Johnson,  "He  who 
is  tired  of  London  is  tired  of  life."  —  "Why 
Sir,  Fleet  Street  has  a  very  animated  appear 
ance,  but  I  think  the  full  tide  of  human  exist 
ence  is  at  Charing  Cross." 

An  interesting  personality  is  always  inter 
ested  in  the  place  where  he  happens  to  be.  Dr. 
Holmes  found  his  Fleet  Street  and  Charing 
Cross  within  easy  walking  distance.  All  the 
specimens  of  human  nature  which  he  needed 
for  his  study  could  be  found  on  Boston  Com 
mon.  Boston  was  not  so  big  as  London,  nor 
so  old,  but  it  was  sufficient  for  his  active  mind. 

In  that  most  delightful  of  nature  books, 
Gilbert  White's  "Natural  History  of  Selborne," 
the  good  rector  says  of  the  range  of  hills  that 
ran  through  the  parish  which  was  his  world, 
"  Though  I  have  travelled  the  Sussex  Downs 
upwards  of  thirty  years,  yet  I  still  investigate 
that  chain  of  majestic  mountains  with  fresh 
admiration  year  by  year,  and  think  I  see  new 
beauties  every  time  I  traverse  it." 

The  globe-trotter  smiles  superciliously  when 
he  is  told  that  these  majestic  mountains  rise 
to  the  height  of  five  hundred  feet.  But  the 
[  19  ] 


HOLMES 

globe-trotter  may  well  ask  himself  whether  he 
has  really  seen  as  much  of  the  world  as  Gil 
bert  White  saw  in  his  thirty  years'  travels 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  Parish 
of  Selborne. 

When  the  "jaunty-looking  person,  who  had 
come  in  with  the  young  fellow  they  call  John" 
made  his  famous  remark  about  the  Bostonian 
belief  that  "Boston  State- House  is  the  hub  of 
the  solar  system,"  the  Autocrat  accepted  it 
good-naturedly.  "Sir, — said  I,  —  I  am  grati 
fied  with  your  remark.  It  expresses  with  pleas 
ing  vivacity  that  which  I  have  sometimes  heard 
uttered  with  malignant  dulness.  The  satire 
of  the  remark  is  essentially  true  of  Boston,  — 
and  of  all  other  considerable,  —  and  incon 
siderable,  —  places  with  which  I  have  had  the 
privilege  of  being  acquainted.  ...  I  have 
been  about,  lecturing,  you  know,  and  have 
found  the  following  propositions  true  of  all  of 
them. 

"1.  The  axis  of  the  earth  sticks  out  visibly 
through  the  centre  of  each  and  every  town  or 
city. 

"2.  If  more  than  fifty  years  have  passed 
[  20  "] 


HOLMES 

since  its  foundation,  it  is  affectionately  styled 
by  the  inhabitants  the  'good  old  town  of  — 
(whatever  its  name  may  happen  to  be). 

"3.  Every  collection  of  its  inhabitants  that 
comes  together  to  listen  to  a  stranger  is  inva 
riably  declared  to  be  a  'remarkably  intelli 
gent  audience.' 

"4.  The  climate  of  the  place  is  particularly 
favorable  to  longevity. 

"5.  It  contains  several  persons  of  vast  talent 
little  knowrn  to  the  world.  .  .  . 

"  Boston  is  just  like  other  places  of  its  size ;  — 
only,  perhaps,  considering  its  excellent  fish- 
market,  paid  fire-department,  superior  monthly 
publications,  and  correct  habit  of  spelling  the 
English  language,  it  has  some  right  to  look 
down  on  the  mob  of  cities." 

That  was  in  1857.  Since  then  the  fish-mar 
kets  and  fire-departments  and  monthly  maga 
zines  of  other  cities  have  improved,  and  no 
body  pretends  any  longer  to  know  what  is  the 
correct  way  of  spelling  the  English  language. 
All  the  offensive  Bostonian  claims  to  superior 
ity  have  passed  away. 

In  "The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table" 


HOLMES 

we  have  many  glimpses  of  the  intelligent  and 
right-minded,  but  somewhat  self-conscious 
Boston  of  the  Transcendental  period.  Dr. 
Holmes's  wit  was  a  safety  match  which  struck 
fire  on  the  prepared  surface  of  the  box  in  which 
it  came.  Boston  was  the  box. 

The  peculiarities  which  he  found  most 
amusing  were  those  which  he  himself  shared. 
There  is  indeed  an  old  prudential  maxim  to  the 
effect  that  people  who  live  in  glass  houses 
should  not  throw  stones.  This  ill-natured  say 
ing  takes  for  granted  that  we  should  all  enjoy 
smashing  our  neighbors'  glass  if  we  could  in 
sure  the  safety  of  our  own.  Dr.  Holmes  was 
of  a  different  disposition.  His  satire,  like  his 
charity,  began  at  home.  He  was  quite  proud 
of  the  glass  house  in  which  he  lived,  and  at  the 
same  time  he  enjoyed  throwing  stones.  If  he 
broke  a  window  now  and  then  it  was  a  satis 
faction  to  think  that  it  was  his  own.  No  one 
valued  more  highly  the  intellectual  character 
istics  of  Boston,  but  he  also  saw  the  amusing 
side  of  the  local  virtues.  You  may  have 
watched  the  prestidigitator  plunge  his  hand 
into  a  bowl  of  burning  ether,  and  hold  it  aloft 
[  22  ] 


HOLMES 

like  a  blazing  torch.  There  was  a  film  of 
moisture  sufficient  to  protect  the  hand  from 
the  thin  flame.  So  Dr.  Holmes's  satire  played 
around  the  New  England  Conscience  and  did 
not  the  least  harm  to  it. 

A  Scotch  Presbyterian  of  the  seventeenth  cen 
tury,  named  Baillie,  wrote  a  description  of  the 
English  Puritans  at  the  time  when  many  were 
crossing  to  New  England.  "They  are  a  people 
inclinable  to  singularities,  their  humor  is  to 
differ  from  all  the  world,  and  shortly  from 
themselves."  It  was  this  hereditary  humor, 
somewhat  stimulated  by  the  keen  winds  from 
off  Massachusetts  Bay,  that  furnished  Dr. 
Holmes  with  his  best  material. 

"I  value  a  man,"  says  the  Autocrat,  "mainly 
for  his  primary  relations  with  truth,  as  I  under 
stand  truth." 

Such  an  assertion  of  independent  judgment 
could  not  fail  to  awaken  other  independent 
boarders  to  opposition. 

"The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite  got 
his  hand  up,  as  a  pointer  lifts  his  forefoot,  at 
the  expression,  *  his  relations  with  truth,  as  I  un 
derstand  truth/  and  when  I  had  done,  sniffed 
[  23  ] 


HOLMES 

audibly,  and  said  I  talked  like  a  transcen- 
dentalist.  For  his  part,  common  sense  was 
good  enough  for  him. 

"Precisely  so,  my  dear  sir,  I  replied;  com 
mon  sense,  as  you  understand  it." 

It  was  a  discussion  which  had  been  carried 
on  without  interruption  since  the  days  when 
old  Mr.  Blackstone  settled  on  the  peninsula 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Charles  in  order  to  get 
into  primary  relations  with  truth  as  he  under 
stood  truth,  and  had  his  peace  disturbed  by 
the  influx  of  people  from  Salem  who  came 
with  the  intention  of  getting  into  primary  re 
lations  with  truth  as  they  understood  it. 

In  Sunday  preachments,  in  Thursday  lec 
tures,  in  councils  and  town  meetings,  in  lec 
ture-halls  and  drawing-rooms,  the  quest  has 
been  kept  up.  Mrs.  Anne  Hutchinson  here 
got  into  primary  relations  with  truth  as  she 
understood  truth,  and  so  did  Margaret  Fuller, 
and  so  has  Mrs.  Eddy. 

Never  has  any  one  who  had  done  this  lacked 
followers  in  the  good  old  town,  and  never  has 
such  an  one  lacked  candid  critics.  So  long  as 
there  is  a  keen  delight  in  the  give-and-take, 


HOLMES 

the  thrust  and  counter-thrust  of  opinion,  that 
"state  of  mind"  that  is  Boston  will  be  recog 
nized. 

It  was  a  state  of  mind  that  was  particularly 
acute  in  those  days  when  Lowell  wrote  of 
Theodore  Parker  and  his  co-religionists,  — 

I  know  they  all  went 
For  a  general  union  of  total  dissent: 
He  went  a  step  farther;  without  cough  or  hem, 
He  frankly  avowed  he  believed  not  in  them; 
And,  before  he  could  be  jumbled  up  or  prevented, 
From  their  orthodox  kind  of  dissent  he  dissented. 

Laurence  Sterne,  in  "Tristram  Shandy," 
gives  the  secret  of  his  own  method  of  writing. 
"In  course,"  said  Yorick,  "in  a  tone  two  parts 
jest  and  one  part  earnest."  Dr.  Holmes  used 
these  ingredients,  but  the  proportions  were 
reversed.  Usually  there  are  two  parts  earnest 
and  one  part  jest.  The  earnest  was  always  the 
earnest  of  the  man  of  science,  and  of  the  keen 
physician.  We  are  reminded  of  the  kind  of 
writing  which  Lord  Bacon  wished  to  see ;  "so 
ber  satire;  or  the  insides  of  things."  Much 
of  his  wit  is  of  the  nature  of  a  quick  diagnosis. 
We  are  moral  hypochondriacs,  going  about 
'  [  25  ] 


HOLMES 

with  long  faces  imagining  that  we  are  suffering 
from  a  complication  of  formidable  diseases. 
The  little  doctor  looks  us  over  and  tells  us 
what  is  the  matter  with  us.  The  incongruity 
between  what  we  thought  was  the  matter  and 
what  is  the  matter,  makes  us  smile.  It  is  as  if 
a  man  thought  he  had  committed  the  unpar 
donable  sin,  and  was  told  that  the  real  sin  that 
has  produced  his  bad  feelings  was  committed 
by  his  cook. 

Here  is  a  bit  of  social  diagnosis:  "There 
are  persons  who  no  sooner  come  within  sight 
of  you  than  they  begin  to  smile,  with  an  un 
certain  movement  of  the  mouth,  which  conveys 
the  idea  that  they  are  thinking  about  them 
selves,  and  thinking,  too,  that  you  are  thinking 
they  are  thinking  about  themselves." 

We  are  made  to  see  that  the  troublesome 
complaint  which  we  usually  speak  of  as  self- 
consciousness  is  not  so  simple  as  we  had 
thought.  It  is  a  complication  of  disorders. 
It  is  not  merely  a  consciousness  of  one's  self. 
It  is  the  consciousness  of  other  people's  con 
sciousness  that  makes  the  trouble.  All  of  which 
is  amusing  because  it  is  true. 
[  26  ] 


HOLMES 

"There  is  no  power  I  envy  so  much, — said 
the  divinity-student,  —  as  that  of  seeing  analo 
gies  and  making  comparisons.  I  don't  under 
stand  how  it  is  that  some  minds  are  continually 
coupling  thoughts  or  objects  that  seem  not  in 
the  least  related  to  each  other,  until  all  at  once 
they  are  put  in  a  certain  light  and  you  wonder 
that  you  did  not  always  see  that  they  were  as 
like  as  a  pair  of  twins.  It  appears  to  me  a 
sort  of  miraculous  gift." 

Now,  to  the  Autocrat  it  was  not  a  miracu 
lous  gift  at  all.  To  couple  ideas  into  a  train 
of  thought  was  as  easy  for  him  as  it  is  for  a 
railroad  man  to  couple  cars.  But  the  connec 
tions  which  he  saw  were  not  like  the  analo 
gies  of  the  homilist,  they  were  like  the  connec 
tion  which  the  physician  recognizes  between 
the  symptom  and  the  disease :  this  thing  means 
that. 

That  there  is  any  likeness  between  an  awk 
ward  visitor  and  a  ship  is  not  evident  till  it 
is  pointed  out;  after  that  it  seems  inevitable. 

"Don't  you  know  how  hard  it  is  for  some 
people  to  get  out  of  a  room  after  their  visit  is 
really  over  ?  They  want  to  be  off,  and  you 
[  27  ] 


HOLMES 

want  to  have  them  off,  but  they  don't  know 
how  to  manage  it.  One  would  think  they  had 
been  built  in  your  parlor  or  study,  and  were 
waiting  to  be  launched." 

Then  follows  the  suggestion  as  to  the  best 
way  of  launching  them.  "I  have  contrived  a 
sort  of  ceremonial  inclined  plane  for  such 
visitors,  which  being  lubricated  with  certain 
smooth  phrases,  I  back  them  down,  metaphori 
cally  speaking,  stern-foremost,  into  their  *  na 
tive  element,'  the  great  ocean  of  out-doors." 

Whoever  has  felt  himself  thus  being  launched 
recognizes  the  accuracy  of  the  figure  of  speech. 

Even  the  most  confirmed  dogmatist  must 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  meaning  of  "the  relativity 
of  knowledge,"  and  of  the  difference  between 
opinion  and  truth,  when  the  Professor  at  the 
Breakfast-Table  explains  it  to  him.  "Do  you 
know  that  every  man  has  a  religious  belief  pe 
culiar  to  himself  ?  Smith  is  always  a  Smithite. 
He  takes  in  exactly  Smith's-worth  of  know 
ledge,  Smith's-worth  of  truth,  of  beauty,  of 
divinity.  And  Brown  has  from  time  immemo 
rial  been  trying  to  burn  him,  to  excommunicate 
him,  to  anonymous-article  him,  because  he  did 
[  28  ] 


HOLMES 

not  take  in  Brown's-worth  of  knowledge,  truth, 
beauty,  divinity.  He  cannot  do  it,  any  more 
than  a  pint-pot  can  hold  a  quart,  or  a  quart- 
pot  be  filled  by  a  pint.  Iron  is  essentially  the 
same  everywhere  and  always  ;  but  the  sulphate 
of  iron  is  never  the  same  as  the  carbonate  of 
iron.  Truth  is  invariable,  but  the  Smithate  of 
truth  must  always  differ  from  the  Brownate 
of  truth." 

When  one  has  begun  to  state  his  political 
or  theological  opinions  in  terms  of  chemistry, 
and  is  able  to  grasp  the  idea  of  a  Smithate  of 
truth,  he  is  on  good  terms  with  Dr.  Holmes. 
He  may  go  on  to  apply  the  same  methods  to 
literary  criticism.  "I  suppose  that  a  man's 
mind  does  in  time  form  a  neutral  salt  with  the 
elements  of  the  universe  for  which  it  has 
special  elective  affinities.  In  fact,  I  look  upon 
a  library  as  a  kind  of  mental  chemist's  shop, 
filled  with  the  crystals  of  all  forms  and  hues 
which  have  come  from  the  union  of  individual 
thought  with  local  circumstances  or  universal 
principles.  When  a  man  has  worked  out  his 
special  affinities  in  this  way,  there  is  an  end  of 
his  genius  as  a  real  solvent.  No  more  eft'er- 
[  29  ] 


HOLMES 

vescence  and  hissing  tumult  as  he  pours  his 
sharp  thought  on  the  world's  biting  alkaline 
unbeliefs." 

The  Autocrat  was  asked  by  one  of  the 
boarders  whether  he  did  n't  "read  up"  for  his 
talks  at  the  breakfast-table.  "No,  that  is  the 
last  thing  I  would  do.  ...  Talk  about  those 
subjects  you  have  had  long  in  your  mind.  .  .  . 
Knowledge  and  timber  should  n't  be  much 
used  till  they  are  seasoned." 

It  is  the  impression  of  seasoned  thought 
which  comes  as  we  read  sentences  which  em 
body  the  results  of  a  long  experience.  "The 
Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table"  was  not 
easy  to  write;  no  good  book  is.  The  writer 
who  is  unusually  fluent  should  take  warning 
from  the  instructions  which  accompany  his 
fountain-pen :  When  this  pen  flows  too  freely 
it  is  a  sign  that  it  is  nearly  empty  and  should 
be  filled. 

In  the  maturity  of  his  powers,  Dr.  Holmes 
jotted  down  his  thoughts.  The  thoughts  them 
selves  had  been  long  in  his  mind.  "The  idea 
of  a  man's  '  interviewing '  himself  is  rather  odd, 
to  be  sure,"  says  the  Poet  to  the  prosaic  board- 
[  30  ] 


HOLMES 

ers.  "But  then  that  is  what  we  are  all  of  us 
doing  every  day.  I  talk  half  the  time  to  find 
out  my  own  thoughts,  as  a  school-boy  turns 
his  pockets  inside  out  to  see  what  is  in  them. 
.  .  .  It 's  a  very  queer  place,  that  receptacle  a 
man  fetches  his  talk  out  of.  The  library  com 
parison  does  n't  exactly  hit  it.  You  stow  away 
some  idea  and  don't  want  it,  say  for  ten  years. 
When  it  turns  up  at  last  it  has  got  so  jammed 
and  crushed  out  of  shape  by  the  other  ideas 
packed  with  it,  that  it  is  no  more  like  what  it 
was  than  a  raisin  is  like  a  grape  on  the  vine,  or 
a  fig  from  a  drum  like  one  hanging  on  the  tree. 
Then,  again,  some  kinds  of  thoughts  breed  in 
the  dark  of  one's  mind  like  the  blind  fishes  in 
the  Mammoth  Cave.  We  can't  see  them,  and 
they  can't  see  us ;  but  sooner  or  later  the  day 
light  gets  in,  and  we  find  that  some  cold,  fishy 
little  negative  has  been  spawning  all  over  our 
beliefs,  and  the  brood  of  blind  questions  it  has 
given  birth  to  are  burrowing  round  and  under 
and  butting  their  blunt  noses  against  the  pil 
lars  of  faith  we  thought  the  whole  world  might 
lean  on.  And  then,  again,  some  of  our  old  be 
liefs  are  dying  out  every  year,  and  others  feed 
[  31  ] 


HOLMES 

on  them  and  grow  fat,  or  get  poisoned  as  the 
case  may  be." 

Dr.  Holmes  perfected  the  small  stereoscope 
for  hand  use.  The  invention  was  typical  of  the 
quality  of  his  own  mind.  The  stereoscope  is 
"an  optical  instrument  for  representing  in 
apparent  relief  and  solidity  all  natural  objects 
by  uniting  into  one  image  two  representations 
of  these  objects  as  seen  by  each  eye  separately. " 
The  ordinary  prosaic  statement  of  fact  pre 
sents  a  flat  surface.  The  object  of  thought 
does  not  stand  out  from  its  own  background. 
We  look  through  the  eyes  of  Dr.  Holmes  and 
we  have  a  stereoscopic  view.  A  stereoscope 
may  not  have  as  great  scientific  value  as  a 
microscope  or  a  telescope,  but  it  is  very  inter 
esting  for  all  that.  The  stereoscopic  mind 
makes  an  abstract  idea  seem  real. 


It  is  convenient  for  purposes  of  quotation 
to  ignore  the  transparent  fiction  by  which  the 
"Autocrat"  of  the  first  series  gives  way  to  the 
"Professor,"  and  then  to  the  "Poet."  Dr. 
Holmes  the  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Dr. 
Holmes  the  Poet  were  the  same  person.  The 
t  32  ] 


HOLMES 

Autocrat  might  change  his  title  as  the  years 
passed  by,  but  he  could  not  change  his  identity. 

Dr.  Holmes,  in  the  preface  to  "The  Pro 
fessor  at  the  Breakfast-Table,"  disarms  criti 
cism  by  suggesting  a  falling  off  in  interest. 
"The  first  juice  that  runs  of  itself  from  the 
grapes  comes  from  the  heart  of  the  fruit,  and 
tastes  of  the  pulp  only;  when  the  grapes  are 
squeezed  in  the  press  the  flow  betrays  the 
flavor  of  the  skin.  If  there  is  any  freshness  in 
the  original  idea  of  the  work,  if  there  is  any 
individuality  in  the  method  or  style  of  a  new 
author,  or  of  an  old  author  on  a  new  track,  it 
will  have  lost  much  of  its  first  effect  when  re 
peated." 

Evidently  the  majority  of  readers  have  taken 
this  view,  for  the  Autocrat  is  read  by  many 
who  have  slight  acquaintance  with  the  Poet 
or  the  Professor.  But  though  there  may  have 
been  a  loss  in  freshness,  there  was  a  gain  in 
substance. 

Dr.  Holmes  stood  aloof  from  many  of  the 
"reforms"  of  his  day.  Yet  he  too  was  "a 
soldier  in  the  battle  for  the  liberation  of  hu 
manity."  In  "The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast- 
[  33  ] 


HOLMES 

Table"  there  are  keen  thrusts  against  theo 
logical  dogmatism  and  bigotry.  No  wonder 
that  the  book  was  for  a  time  in  danger  of  being 
placed  on  the  Protestant  "Index  Expurga- 
torius."  There  was  often  consternation  at  the 
breakfast-table,  and  much  shaking  of  heads. 
"It  was  undeniable  that  on  several  occasions 
the  Little  Gentleman  had  expressed  himself 
with  a  good  deal  of  freedom  on  a  class  of  sub 
jects  which,  according  to  the  divinity-student, 
he  had  no  right  to  form  an  opinion  upon." 
And  the  Professor  himself  was  no  better. 

Dr.  Holmes  lived  to  see  the  battle  for  reli 
gious  toleration  won,  at  least  in  the  commu 
nity  in  which  he  lived,  and  he  says  of  the  once 
startling  opinions  of  the  Professor,  "What 
was  once  an  irritant  may  now  act  as  an  ano 
dyne,  and  the  reader  may  nod  over  pages 
which,  when  they  were  first  written,  would 
have  worked  him  into  a  paroxysm  of  protest 
and  denunciation." 

But  it  is  in  "The  Poet,  at  the  Breakfast- 
Table"  that  we  see  Dr.  Holmes  fighting  a 
battle  which  is  still  on.  As  he  was  an  enemy 
of  Bigotry,  so  he  was  an  enemy  of  Pedantry. 
[  84  ]  ' 


HOLMES 

Born  in  the  same  year  with  Darwin,  he  felt 
the  change  which  was  taking  place  in  the 
ideals  and  methods  of  education.  The  old 
classical  culture  was  giving  way  to  the  new 
discipline  of  science.  As  a  scientific  man,  he 
sympathized  with  the  new  methods.  But  he 
perceived  that  as  there  was  a  pedantry  of  classi 
cal  scholarship,  so  there  was  developing  a  scien 
tific  pedantry,  which  was  equally  hostile  to 
any  generous  and  joyous  intellectual  life. 

In  the  preface  to  his  last  edition,  he  says : 
"We  have  only  to  look  over  the  lists  of  the 
Faculties  and  teachers  of  our  Universities  to  see 
the  subdivision  of  labor  carried  out  as  never 
before.  The  movement  is  irresistible ;  it  brings 
with  it  exactness,  exhaustive  knowledge,  a  nar 
row  but  complete  self-satisfaction,  with  such 
accompanying  faults  as  pedantry,  triviality, 
and  the  kind  of  partial  blindness  which  be 
longs  to  intellectual  myopia." 

One  may  go  far  before  he  finds  anything 
more  delicious  than  the  conversations  between 
the  Scarabee,  who  knew  only  about  beetles, 
and  "the  old  Master,"  to  whom  all  the  wrorld 
was  interesting.  "I  would  not  give  much  to 
[  35  ] 


HOLMES 

hear  what  the  Scarabee  says  about  the  old 
Master,  for  he  does  not  pretend  to  form  a 
judgment  of  anything  but  beetles,  but  I  should 
like  to  hear  what  the  Master  has  to  say  about 
the  Scarabee."  What  the  Master  had  to  say 
was:  "These  specialists  are  the  coral-insects 
that  build  up  a  reef.  By  and  by  it  will  be  an 
island,  and  for  aught  we  know  may  grow  into 
a  continent.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  a  coral- 
insect  myself.  ...  I  am  a  little  afraid  that 
science  is  breeding  us  down  too  fast  into  coral- 
insects." 

Here  we  have  stated  the  problem  which  the 
new  education  is  facing.  How  may  we  gain 
the  results  which  come  from  highly  special 
ized  effort,  without  losing  the  breadth  and 
freedom  of  a  liberal  education  ?  We  must  have 
specialists,  but  we  must  recognize  the  occu 
pational  diseases  to  which  they  are  liable,  and 
we  must  find  some  way  by  which  they  may  be 
saved  from  them. 

The  old  Master's  division  of  the  intellectual 
world  is  worth  our  careful  consideration. 
There  are  "one-story  intellects,  two-story  in 
tellects,  three-story  intellects  with  skylights. 
[  36  ] 


OF  THE  NA 

UNIVERSITY)] 

OF 


HOLMES 

All  fact-collectors,  who  have  no  aim  beyond 
their  facts,  are  one-story  men.  Two-story  men 
compare,  reason,  generalize,  using  the  labors 
of  the  fact-collectors  as  well  as  their  own. 
Three-story  men  idealize,  imagine,  predict; 
their  best  illumination  comes  from  above, 
through  the  skylight." 

Dr.  Holmes  was  pleading  the  same  cause 
to  which  Wordsworth  was  devoted,  the  union 
of  Science  and  Poetry  in  a  new  and  higher  type 
of  culture.  If  there  is  to  be  fullness  of  life  there 
must  be  the  cultivation  of 

The  glorious  habit  by  which  sense  is  made 
Subservient  still  to  moral  purposes, 
Auxiliar  to  divine.   That  change  shall  clothe 
The  naked  spirit,  ceasing  to  deplore 
The  burthen  of  existence.   Science  then 
Shall  be  a  precious  visitant;  and  then, 
And  only  then,  be  worthy  of  her  name; 
For  then  her  heart  shall  kindle;  her  dull  eye, 
Dull  and  inanimate,  no  more  shall  hang 
Chained  to  its  object  in  brute  slavery ; 
But  taught  with  patient  interest  to  watch 
The  processes  of  things,  and  serve  the  cause 
Of  order  and  distinctness,  not  for  this 
Shall  it  forget  that  its  most  noble  use, 
Its  most  illustrious  province,  must  be  found 
[    37    ] 


HOLMES 

In  furnishing  clear  guidance,  a  support 

Not  treacherous,  to  the  mind's  excursive  power. 

Amid  the  clatter  of  the  dishes,  this  was  the 
doctrine  that  was  insisted  upon  at  the  Boston 
boarding-house.  Be  sure  of  your  fact,  define 
it  well.  But,  after  all,  a  fact  is  but  the  start 
ing-point.  It  is  not  the  goal.  The  great  thing 
is  the  mind's  "excursive  power."  Dr.  Holmes 's 
excursions  were  not  so  long  as  that  of  Words 
worth,  but  they  were  more  varied,  and  how 
many  unexpectedly  interesting  things  he  saw ! 
Those  who  like  to  go  a-thinking  will  always 
be  glad  that  Dr.  Holmes  was  obliging  enough 
to  be  his  own  Bos  well. 


SELECTED  POEMS 


OLD  IRONSIDES1 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar;  — 

1  This  was  the  popular  name  by  which  the  frigate  Constitution 
was  known.  The  poem  was  first  printed  in  the  Boston  Daily  Adver 
tiser,  at  the  time  when  it  was  proposed  to  break  up  the  old  ship  as 
unfit  for  service.  I  subjoin  the  paragraph  which  led  to  the  writing  of 
the  poem.  It  is  from  the  Advertiser  of  Tuesday,  September  14, 1830 :  — 

"  Old  Ironsides.  —  It  has  been  affirmed  upon  good  authority  that 
the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  has  recommended  to  the  Board  of  Navy 
Commissioners  to  dispose  of  the  frigate  Constitution.  Since  it  has  been 
understood  that  such  a  step  was  in  contemplation  we  have  heard  but 
one  opinion  expressed,  and  that  in  decided  disapprobation  of  the 
measure.  Such  a  national  object  of  interest,  so  endeared  to  our  national 
pride  as  Old  Ironsides  is,  should  never  by  any  act  of  our  government 
cease  to  belong  to  the  Navy,  so  long  as  our  country  is  to  be  found  upon 
the  map  of  nations.  In  England  it  was  lately  determined  by  the  Ad 
miralty  to  cut  the  Victory,  a  one-hundred  gun  ship  (which  it  will  be 
recollected  bore  the  flag  of  Lord  Nelson  at  the  battle  of  Trafalgar), 
down  to  a  seventy-four,  but  so  loud  were  the  lamentations  of  the  people 
upon  the  proposed  measure  that  the  intention  was  abandoned.  We 
confidently  anticipate  that  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  will  in  like 
manner  consult  the  general  wish  in  regard  to  the  Constitution,  and 
either  let  her  remain  in  ordinary  or  rebuild  her  whenever  the  public 
service  may  require."  —  New  York  Journal  of  Commerce. 

The  poem  was  an  impromptu  outburst  of  feeling  and  was  published 
the  next  day  but  one  after  reading  the  above  paragraph.  —  HOLMES. 


THE   CAMBRIDGE   CHURCHYARD 

The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee ;  — 
The  h#r$ies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea! 

Oh  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale! 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD 

OUR  ancient  church !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadowed  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
[    42    ] 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD 

High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 
Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 


Like  Sentinel  and  Nun,  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between; 
And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 

Their  music's  mingling  waves, 
They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennoned  spear 

Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 

Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 
So  thick,  beneath  the  line  he  reads, 

They  shade  the  sculptured  stone; 
The  child  unveils  his  clustered  brow, 

And  ponders  for  a  while 
The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 

Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 

But  what  to  them  the  dirge,  the  knell  ? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share,  — • 
The  sullen  clang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Throbbed  through  the  beating  air; 
The  rattling  cord,  the  rolling  stone, 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone 

Rung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 
[    43    ] 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD 

The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and  green, 

Then  slowly  disappears ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years; 
But,  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  pressed  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherished  brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love? 

A  sigh  for  transient  power? 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  hour! 

The  Indian's  shaft,  the  Briton's  ball, 

The  sabre's  thirsting  edge, 
The  hot  shell,  shattering  in  its  fall, 

The  bayonet's  rending  wedge,  — 
Here  scattered  death;  yet,  seek  the  spot, 

No  trace  thine  eye  can  see, 
No  altar,  —  and  they  need  it  not 

Who  leave  their  children  free! 

Look  where  the  turbid  rain-drops  stand 

In  many  a  chiselled  square; 
The  knightly  crest,  the  shield,  the  brand 

Of  honored  names  were  there ;  — 
[    44    1 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD 

Alas !  for  every  tear  is  dried 

Those  blazoned  tablets  knew, 

Save  when  the  icy  marble's  side 
Drips  with  the  evening  dew. 

Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillared  stone, 

The  empty  urn  of  pride; 
There  stand  the  Goblet  and  the  Sun,1  — 

What  need  of  more  beside? 
Where  lives  the  memory  of  the  dead, 

Who  made  their  tomb  a  toy? 
Whose  ashes  press  that  nameless  bed  ? 

Go,  ask  the  village  boy! 

Lean  o'er  the  slender  western  wall, 

Ye  ever-roaming  girls; 
The  breath  that  bids  the  blossom  fall 

May  lift  your  floating  curls, 
To  sweep  the  simple  lines  that  tell 

An  exile's  date  and  doom; 
And  sigh,  for  where  his  daughters  dwell, 

They  wreathe  the  stranger's  tomb. 

And  one  amid  these  shades  was  born, 

Beneath  this  turf  who  lies, 
Once  beaming  as  the  summer's  morn, 

That  closed  her  gentle  eyes ; 

1  The  Goblet  and  the  Sun  (Vas-Sol),  sculptured  on  a  freestone  slab 
supported  by  five  pillars,  are  the  only  designation  of  the  family  tomb 
of  the  Vassalls.  —  HOLMES. 

[    45    ] 


THE   CAMBRIDGE   CHURCHYARD 

If  sinless  angels  love  as  we, 

Who  stood  thy  grave  beside, 

Three  seraph  welcomes  waited  thee, 
The  daughter,  sister,  bride! 

I  wandered  to  thy  buried  mound 

When  earth  was  hid  below 
The  level  of  the  glaring  ground, 

Choked  to  its  gates  with  snow, 
And  when  with  summer's  flowery  waves 

The  lake  of  verdure  rolled, 
As  if  a  Sultan's  white-robed  slaves 

Had  scattered  pearls  and  gold. 

Nay,  the  soft  pinions  of  the  air, 

That  lift  this  trembling  tone, 
Its  breath  of  love  may  almost  bear 

To  kiss  thy  funeral  stone; 
And,  now  thy  smiles  have  passed  away, 

For  all  the  joy  they  gave, 
May  sweetest  dews  and  warmest  ray 

Lie  on  thine  early  grave ! 

When  damps  beneath  and  storms  above 

Have  bowed  these  fragile  towers, 
Still  o'er  the  graves  yon  locust  grove 

Shall  swing  its  Orient  flowers; 
And  I  would  ask  no  mouldering  bust, 

If  e'er  this  humble  line, 
Which  breathed  a  sigh  o'er  others'  dust, 

Might  call  a  tear  on  mine. 


THE   LAST   LEAF 


THE  LAST  LEAF1 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  prun ing-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 
Sad  and  wan, 

1  This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  appearance  in  one  of  our  streets 
of  a  venerable  relic  of  the  Revolution,  said  to  be  one  of  the  party  who 
threw  the  tea  overboard  in  Boston  Harbor.  He  was  a  fine  monumental 
specimen  in  his  cocked  hat  and  knee  breeches,  with  his  buckled  shoes 
and  his  sturdy  cane.  The  smile  with  which  I,  as  a  young  man,  greeted 
him,  meant  no  disrespect  to  an  honored  fellow-citizen  whose  costume 
was  out  of  date,  but  whose  patriotism  never  changed  with  years.  I 
do  not  recall  any  earlier  example  of  this  form  of  verse,  which  was 
commended  by  the  fastidious  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  who  made  a  copy 
of  the  whole  poem  which  I  have  in  his  own  handwriting.  Good 
Abraham  Lincoln  had  a  great  liking  for  the  poem,  and  repeated 
it  from  memory  to  Governor  Andrew,  as  the  governor  himself  told 
me.  —  HOLMES. 

[    47    ] 


THE   LAST  LEAF 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 
"They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 


My  grandmamma  has  said  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer! 

[    48    ] 


THE   HEIGHT   OF   THE   RIDICULOUS 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 


THE  HEIGHT  OF  THE  RIDICULOUS 

I  WROTE  some  lines  once  on  a  time 
In  wondrous  merry  mood, 

And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 
They  were  exceeding  good. 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 
I  laughed  as  I  would  die; 

Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 
A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb. 

"These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed, 

And,  in  my  humorous  way, 
I  added,  (as  a  trifling  jest,) 

"There'll  be  the  devil  to  pay." 
[    49    ] 


THE   DEACON'S   MASTERPIECE 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched, 

And  saw  him  peep  within; 
At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 

Was  all  upon  the  grin. 

He  read  the  next;  the  grin  grew  broad, 

And  shot  from  ear  to  ear; 
He  read  the  third ;  a  chuckling  noise 

I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth;  he  broke  into  a  roar; 

The  fifth;  his  waistband  split; 
The  sixth;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 
I  watched  that  wretched  man, 

And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 
As  funny  as  I  can. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE 

OR,   THE  WONDERFUL   "oNE-HOSS   SHAY' 
A   LOGICAL  STORY 


HAVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it  —  ah,  but  stay, 
[    50    ] 


THE   DEACON'S   MASTERPIECE 

I'll  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-boss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 

There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot,  — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  —  lurking  still,. 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 

And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 

That  a  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't  wear  out. 


But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "I  tell  yeou") 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'N'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun'  ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  could  n'  break 
[    51    ] 


THE   DEACON'S   MASTERPIECE 

"Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  Vs  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain; 
'N'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 
That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke, — 
That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills ; 
He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills ; 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees, 
The  panels  of  white- wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these; 
The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "  Settler's  ellum,"  — 
Last  of  its  timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell  'em, 
Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 
Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." 
"There!"  said  the  Deacon,  "naow  she'll  dew!" 

Do!  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 
I    52    J 


THE  DEACON'S   MASTERPIECE 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Children  and  grandchildren  —  where  were  they  ? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  ;  —  it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten ;  — 
"Hahnsum  kerridge"  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ;  — 
Running  as  usual;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large; 

Take  it.  —  You  're  welcome.  —  No  extra  charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER,  —  the  Earthquake-day,  — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 
There  could  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 
[    53    ] 


THE   DEACON'S   MASTERPIECE 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back  crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five ! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"Huddup!"  said  the  parson.  —  Off  went  they. 
The  Parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text,  — 
Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meet' n' -house  on  the  hill. 
First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 
At  half -past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock,  — 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock! 
What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
[    54    ] 


BILL  AND   JOE 


How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,^ 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.   That's  all  I  say. 


BILL  AND  JOE 

COME,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  from  days  gone  by, 
The  shining  days  when  life  was  new, 
And  all  was  bright  with  morning  dew, 
The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
When  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail 
Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail, 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill. 

You  Ve  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 
And  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes, 
With  HON.  and  L  L.  D. 
In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see,  — 
Your  fist,  old  fellow !  off  they  go !  — 
How  are  you,  Bill?   How  are  you,  Joe? 
[    55    ] 


BILL  AND    JOE 

You  Ve  worn  the  judge's  ermined  robe ; 
You  Ve  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe ; 
You  Ve  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain ; 
You  Ve  made  the  dead  past  live  again : 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will, 
But  you  and  I  are  Joe  and  Bill. 

The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say, 
See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gray,  — 
They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens ! 
Mad,  poor  old  boys!  That's  what  it  means," 
And  shake  their  heads;  they  little  know 
The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe !  — 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes,  — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame? 
A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame; 
A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust, 
That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust; 
A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 
Which  dust  was  Bill  and  which  was  Joe? 

The  weary  idol  takes  his  stand, 
Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand, 
[    56    ] 


WHAT  WE   ALL   THINK 

While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go,  — 
How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show! 
Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  thrill ;  — 
'Tis  poor  old  Joe's  "God  bless  you,  Bill!" 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears; 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long, 
Just  whispering  of  the  world  below, 
Where  this  was  Bill  and  that  was  Joe? 

No  matter;  while  our  home  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say? 
Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
Hie  jacet  Joe.  Hie  jacet  Bill. 


WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK 

THAT  age  was  older  once  than  now, 
In  spite  of  locks  untimely  shed, 

Or  silvered  on  the  youthful  brow; 

That  babes  make  love  and  children  wed. 

That  sunshine  had  a  heavenly  glow, 

Which  faded  with  those  "good  old  days" 

When  winters  came  with  deeper  snow, 
And  autumns  with  a  softer  haze. 
[    57    ] 


WHAT   WE   ALL   THINK 

That  —  mother,  sister,  wife,  or  child  — 
The  "  best  of  women  "  each  has  known. 

Were  school-boys  ever  half  so  wild  ? 

How  young  the  grandpapas  have  grown ! 

That  but  for  this  our  souls  were  free, 
And  but  for  that  our  lives  were  blest; 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 

Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 

Whene'er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain,  — 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  race, — 

Though  doctors  think  the  matter  plain,  — 
That  ours  is  "a  peculiar  case." 

That  when  like  babes  with  fingers  burned 
We  count  one  bitter  maxim  more, 

Our  lesson  all  the  world  has  learned, 
And  men  are  wiser  than  before. 

That  when  we  sob  o'er  fancied  woes, 

The  angels  hovering  overhead 
Count  every  pitying  drop  that  flows, 

And  love  us  for  the  tears  we  shed. 

That  when  we  stand  with  tearless  eye 
And  turn  the  beggar  from  our  door, 

They  still  approve  us  when  we  sigh, 
"Ah,  had  I  but  one  thousand  more!" 
[    58    ] 


ROBINSON   OF   LEYDEN 

Though  temples  crowd  the  crumbled  brink 
O'erhanging  truth's  eternal  flow, 

Their  tablets  bold  with  what  we  think, 
Their  echoes  dumb  to  what  we  know; 

That  one  unquestioned  text  we  read, 
All  doubt  beyond,  all  fear  above, 

Nor  crackling  pile  nor  cursing  creed 
Can  burn  or  blot  it:  GOD  is  LOVE! 


ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN 

HE  sleeps  not  here;  in  hope  and  prayer 
His  wandering  flock  had  gone  before, 

But  he,  the  shepherd,  might  not  share 
Their  sorrows  on  the  wintry  shore. 

Before  the  Speedwell's  anchor  swung, 
Ere  yet  the  Mayflower's  sail  was  spread, 

While  round  his  feet  the  Pilgrims  clung, 
The  pastor  spake,  and  thus  he  said :  — 

"Men,  brethren,  sisters,  children  dear! 
God  calls  you  hence  from  over  sea; 
Ye  may  not  build  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  yet  along  the  Zuyder-Zee. 

"  Ye  go  to  bear  the  saving  word 

To  tribes  unnamed  and  shores  untrod; 
[    59    ] 


ROBINSON   OF    LEYDEN 

Heed  well  the  lessons  ye  have  heard 

From  those  old  teachers  taught  of  God. 

"Yet  think  not  unto  them  was  lent 

All  light  for  all  the  coming  days, 
And  Heaven's  eternal  wisdom  spent 
In  making  straight  the  ancient  ways ; 

"  The  living  fountain  overflows 

For  every  flock,  for  every  lamb, 
Nor  heeds,  though  angry  creeds  oppose 
With  Luther's  dike  or  Calvin's  dam." 

He  spake;  with  lingering,  long  embrace, 
With  tears  of  love  and  partings  fond, 

They  floated  down  the  creeping  Maas, 
Along  the  isle  of  Ysselinond. 

They  passed  the  frowning  towers  of  Briel, 
The  "Hook  of  Holland's"  shelf  of  sand, 

And  grated  soon  with  lifting  keel 
The  sullen  shores  of  Fatherland. 

No  home  for  these !  —  too  well  they  knew 
The  mitred  king  behind  the  throne;  — 

The  sails  were  set,  the  pennons  flew, 
And  westward  ho!  for  worlds  unknown. 

And  these  were  they  who  gave  us  birth, 
The  Pilgrims  of  the  sunset  wave, 
[    60    ] 


A  SUN-DAY   HYMN 

Who  won  for  us  this  virgin  earth, 
And  freedom  with  the  soil  they  gave. 

The  pastor  slumbers  by  the  Rhine, — 
In  alien  earth  the  exiles  lie, — 

Their  nameless  graves  our  holiest  shrine, 
His  words  our  noblest  battle-cry! 

Still  cry  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear, 
Ye  dwellers  by  the  storm-swept  sea! 

Ye  have  not  built  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  on  the  land-locked  Zuyder-Zee! 


A  SUN-DAY  HYMN 

LORD  of  all  being !  throned  afar, 
Thy  glory  flames  from  sun  and  star; 
Centre  and  soul  of  every  sphere, 
Yet  to  each  loving  heart  how  near! 

Sun  of  our  life,  thy  quickening  ray 
Sheds  on  our  path  the  glow  of  day; 
Star  of  our  hope,  thy  softened  light 
Cheers  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 

Our  midnight  is  thy  smile  withdrawn; 
Our  noontide  is  thy  gracious  dawn; 
Our  rainbow  arch  thy  mercy's  sign; 
All,  save  the  clouds  of  sin,  are  thine! 
[    61    ] 


THE   CROOKED   FOOTPATH 

Lord  of  all  life,  below,  above, 

Whose  light  is  truth,  whose  warmth  is  love, 

Before  thy  ever-blazing  throne 

We  ask  no  lustre  of  our  own. 

Grant  us  thy  truth  to  make  us  free, 
And  kindling  hearts  that  burn  for  thee, 
Till  all  thy  living  altars  claim 
One  holy  light,  one  heavenly  flame ! 


THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH 

AH,  here  it  is !  the  sliding  rail 

That  marks  the  old  remembered  spot,  - 
The  gap  that  struck  our  school-boy  trail, 

The  crooked  path  across  the  lot. 

It  left  the  road  by  school  and  church, 
A  pencilled  shadow,  nothing  more, 

That  parted  from  the  silver-birch 
And  ended  at  the  farm-house  door. 

No  line  or  compass  traced  its  plan; 

With  frequent  bends  to  left  or  right, 
In  aimless,  wayward  curves  it  ran, 

But  always  kept  the  door  in  sight. 

The  gabled  porch,  with  woodbine  green,  - 
The  broken  millstone  at  the  sill,  — 


THE    CROOKED  FOOTPATH 

Though  many  a  rood  might  stretch  between, 
The  truant  child  could  see  them  still. 

No  rocks  across  the  pathway  lie,  — 
No  fallen  trunk  is  o'er  it  thrown,  — 

And  yet  it  winds,  we  know  not  why, 
And  turns  as  if  for  tree  or  stone. 

Perhaps  some  lover  trod  the  way 

With  shaking  knees  and  leaping  heart, — 

And  so  it  often  runs  astray 
With  sinuous  sweep  or  sudden  start. 

Or  one,  perchance,  with  clouded  brain 
From  some  unholy  banquet  reeled,  — 

And  since,  our  devious  steps  maintain 
His  track  across  the  trodden  field. 

Nay,  deem  not  thus,  —  no  earthborn  will 
Could  ever  trace  a  faultless  line; 

Our  truest  steps  are  human  still,  — 
To  walk  unswerving  were  divine! 

Truants  from  love,  we  dream  of  wrath;  — 
Oh,  rather  let  us  trust  the  more ! 

Through  all  the  wanderings  of  the  path, 
We  still  can  see  our  Father's  door! 


THE   CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 
Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 
[    64    ] 


THE    CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings :  - 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea ! 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S   •    A 


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